Knockin'Life
by applentoast
Summary: The year is 1999, and Tokito is still living, unfortunately. His life has become mundanely normal, by his standards. And then, trouble comes a-knocking again. KuboToki


A/N: Right. So this is the first time I'm actually writing a W.A fic, or actually any fic out of my normal fandom of PoT. XD Therefore, if there's any OOC, or weirdness that I cannot justify, I'll get rid of it immediately as soon as you tell me about it. :) Constructive criticism will be much appreciated

Disclaimer: I do not own W.A or its characters; Kazuya Minekura does, God bless her.

Warnings: Ermmm, pairing is obvious--KuboToki. Apart from that, angst. Romance. Romantic angst. Call it what you will. :P

title: Knockin' (Life):

Prologue: World Gone, A-Stray

Like all stories, his had to begin somewhere. And it began in a city which, like many other cities, masked it's ugliness under the thick cosmetics of hypocritical luxury and a sickly sweet kind of decadence.

This, however, is not the beginning of his story, as misleading as the chapter heading of 'prologue' may be. You all know the real beginning, I'm sure. The one that started it all. This is merely 'a' beginning, one of the many that he's had, whether as Minoru, or Toya or _Tokito. _It's not a beginning he likes to remember, mostly because it starts after he has lost everything, including himself. Especially himself. But let's start this story here, mostly because when a person starts at the lowest point in his life, there's only one way to go and that's up.

Take it as reassurance, if you will.

Anyway, back to the city. Because this is a different starting, and thus, a different time, it stands to reason things have changed since the last you remember of them. Certainly, there isn't anymore confusion over Wild Adapter, and while gang wars still exist, as they inevitably will, he is no longer central in any of their petty squabbling; his connection with them has been severed.

Irretrievably so.

The year is 1999, and Minami Toya is leading a normal life.

Perhaps, this is the point where you raise your eyebrows and state quite correctly in tones of utmost scorn that 'normal' is a subjective adjective. This is entirely true. To better understand the differences between this beginning and the others, let's try to define normality in his context.

No drugs. No sex. No alcohol. No guns.

No police. No yakuza.

No deaths.

No _him. _

All the above examples (save for the ambiguous last) could be said to conform to the usual standards of society. Or at least, society that hasn't found the use for make up remover yet.

He has a day job as a delivery boy. At night, he goes to cram school. Just like any poor orphaned teen. He even has his own dingy apartment, showing that yes, he did break out of the habit of staying in the houses of strangers.

Although, honestly, that's more because it's no longer an option.

But it doesn't matter. His own flat is better, isn't it, because it even has his name on the door, even though sometimes he spends minutes staring at the words till the kanji swims and 'Minami' slowly blurs like he's peering through rain and forms the outline of 'Kubota'.

He'll spend the next few days fumbling with the keys every time he reaches home, just because he won't be able to bring himself to look at the door.

The interior of the apartment isn't that comforting, either. The thick heavy scent of cigarettes permeates every room, lingers greedily on every surface and, most of all, clings to the body of the owner like a jealous lover.

He isn't an addict, despite all assumptions.

He only smokes when he forgets that he wasn't always a stray, that once upon a time, in his bleak fantastical life, he used to belong to another. The tendrils of smoke that curl around him feel like fleeting caresses from another time, and he will breathe in its subtle tang and _remember. _

And if his eyes sting then, it is definitely the cigarette's fault.

Still, the days pass as it ultimately does for everyone who didn't have the fortune to die and he finds himself falling into routine. In between deliveries and school, he's found the time to play arcade games (only because he didn't have the money for a console, of course). His initials belong on all the high scores of the best classics, as well as the newest trends.

M.T, M.T, M.T.

Sometimes, people would watch him, and then tell him that he's good. What did they know, they were just fucking blind; there was still one name on the high score table he couldn't quite surpass.

He isn't sure he wants to, because it would place his own first, and confirm for him that all the while, he was just a selfish little brat who let the other put him on a pedestal.

There were no more pedestals anymore.

Kubo-chan should have been atheist, like him. Then his house wouldn't be empty now, he wouldn't be playing solitaire with an old deck of cards and it wouldn't be a 'him' it would be a 'them'-

Wishful thinking, all the time. If he doesn't become more careful, he's going to get knocked down by a car during a delivery and that's a really crappy way of repaying-

No stop. Don't think about _him._

Despite all that, he's fine, really. More free than he'd ever been in years. There are moments when it gets easier to smile, to interact with the people in his life now, and maybe, just maybe, he'll learn to stop caring so much.

And then he remembers that it's all make believe, because the metaphorical chains around his wrists, his ankles, his_ entire body, _are bound to his soul, which is currently residing at the bottom Yokohama Bay, when it fell off the bridge two years ago.

A lot about him has changed.

His nightmares, too.

He no longer dreams of cages, dreams instead of air, terrifying air, invading his lungs instead of the water he so desperately desired.

It should have been him. But it wasn't.

And now, his dreams are coloured red, his mind screams (not necessarily with terror) at the sight of that familiar smile, his lungs burn as he shouts himself hoarse.

He cannot remember what he was shouting, it had been drowned out by other noises, and he has debated on this countless times, and still can't quite decide which sound he hated the most; the gunshot, the sickening crash of a body against water, or the repeated reassurances of "it's alright" coming from the one man who couldn't tell the truth to save his life.

As always, he wakes with a name dying on his lips. (In the years of his existence, this name, too, has altered.)

It's at times like this, when he wishes he has fireworks with him. It could create the additional warmth that he so badly craves at night, but he knows that they can't work when wet, so he doesn't bother getting any; it'll be a waste of precious money. Instead, he curls up into the couch, and tries to imagine strong arms wrapping around him. He's nearly always successful.

There's no bed in his apartment.

Every morning, he'll stand in front of the mirror, and look at himself. He's grown a little taller, his hair's a little longer, and he's so close now, if he just waited a little while more, then surely he could recreate-

He even wears those glasses, the spare that he found as he was moving out (first and last time he'd gone back to their apartment after the incident on the bridge), and initially, when he'd put them on, the world would spin deliciously out of focus. He had reveled in the way it mirrored his feelings so precisely, and persisted in pursuing his self-imposed blindness until things slowly slid back into clarity, and he felt as though he'd been cheated again.

He spends quite a bit of time wondering if it had been wise to ruin his own eyesight like that, before he hits upon the fact that it isn't really a question of wisdom at all.

He liked the blindness. It meant that he didn't need to see how alone he was.

But that's digressing from the point. So he's got the glasses. He's got the hair. Maybe not the height, but he could just re-position the mirror higher up the wall, no problem.

There's something missing though, something he just couldn't replicate. Kubo-chan's smiles were always sad, or gentle, or downright condescending. He tries out a smile every single morning, and it's never quite the right flavour, like trying to get chocolate and ending up with cocoa bean ice cream.

And he knows that he can try for the rest of his life and it'll only ever come out like heartbreak.

But never mind. He's strong, and the strong inevitably survive. It's not like he had much of a choice after all. There's no one to live off (for?) but that's not even remotely a problem.

And besides, there's no such thing as a tamed cat.

All cats are strays, and in that sense, they didn't need to depend on anyone, right?

…He's seriously taking that house pet joke too far.

Really, he's no longer an animal. He's human, through and through. The government knows he's a citizen. He's got two hands and they look like everyone else's, thank you very much. He's got a childish grin and a boisterous personality to boot, and as a result, no lack of friends wherever he goes. People love him, as a general rule. And that makes it easy enough for him to go on living.

Just goes to show, really, that you don't need your heart to survive.


End file.
